


take a swimming pool full of liquor, then you dive in it

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Pearly's Preklok Fics [31]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Transphobia, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: The first drinking experiences of the world's greatest metal band.





	take a swimming pool full of liquor, then you dive in it

**Be Toki Wartooth, age three.**

You're sitting in the pews at church for the very first time. This is also the first time you've been in town, which is a ways away from your home. You always did this stuff at home, but this is very different. All is quiet but his voice. Father is up in front, yelling words you don't really know yet. Dad never spoke at home. You didn't know he remained silent to avoid bearing false witness at the time. That's a story for another day. You're sitting in the pews as he talks and talks, and you don't really understand any of it.

Father begins pouring a cup of something. You note the color and assume it's blood, which shakes you to your core. You try to stand, but mother grabs your shoulder and forces you down on your knees, so hard that it sends vibrations through your bones. It's God's blood, father says. You wonder why he's keeping it in a glass bottle, and why he's letting you drink it. Doesn't he need his blood? Doesn't that  _hurt?_

Father comes around with the cup and a plate. You're bored, and frightened, as he comes towards you.

His eyes bore into your soul, and he says,  _drink, you filthy sinner! Drink!_

You shake your head. Yes, the other people are drinking it, but they must be crazy! There's blood in there!

Father does the hand signal. Mother does it too. You freeze up. No, no, wait, you can't go in the hole. You don't want to. You shake your head and put your hands out. Father nods, and places something in your palm. A flat circle. Is it made of paper? You quirk a brow, and Father tells you to eat it, without using his words.

It doesn't taste like much. You crunch on it... You were so hungry, though. You haven't eaten in days, and you want more, but when you reach up father drops the giant chalice in your hands. It's enormous. Bigger than your head. You wonder why anyone would drink out of something so huge, it looks like it could fit a whole wolf inside of it! You sniff at the blood. It smells funny, you don't recognize that smell even though you bleed all the time. Is this because it's God's blood? Or just because it came from a bottle?

Father looks impatient, and other people are also waiting to drink it. You take a sip from the giant chalice.

It's gross. You curl your lips, trying not to spit it out, and roughly swallow it. You wrinkle your nose. Father takes the chalice, stacking the plate on top of it, and smacks you across the face for so much as  _implying_ that the blood tasted funny. Your face hurts, now, and your mouth is full of the bitter nastiness. Father shuffles away, but you're still starving for those weird little crackers. Your belly desperately clings to the one you got. Mother says you'll be doing that every Sunday, so you'd better just get used to it. You grimace at the thought of more blood, but consider the prize of another cracker, and decide to take it in stride, or at least attempt to.

**Be Dillon Schumacher, age six.**

You're sitting on the dock, feeling like a piece of garbage on wheels. The garage got set on fire after Seth and his weird friend were playing with firecrackers. It wasn't a huge deal, the damage was pretty minor, but dad was still  _pissed_. Clearly he'd been drinking like a desert critter in a rainstorm. He said,  _Mary, Seth, who did this?_ and of course you neglected to respond, because your name isn't Mary, and it never will be.

Seth nervously pointed at you.

"He diddit."

Of course, you didn't, but your parents liked Seth better, so there's no way they'd ever believe you. Seth apologized later, but it was all white noise, and he totally didn't mean it.

Suddenly, you decided to abscond with a six-pack of beer to the dock.

You don't know why, But the way your heart is screaming, the way your head is shouting, the only way to silence it is with alcohol. You know what it can do, the stronghold it has on mom and dad all the time. You want to be free.

It tastes awful, horrible. But you expect it, since it smells bad, too. Like medicine, sometimes things that taste bad still make you feel better.

Three sips, and you're already feeling the dizziness. Of course you are, you're so young and small and fragile. Halfway through the bottle and you feel like you carry three-hundred pounds in each limb. It's nausea-inducing. You don't mind so much, though.

The water looks cool and friendly, and once the bottle empties, you know if you fell in you'd drown.

Well, you don't know, you could never be sure of anything.

As the sun practically bludgeons your pale brow, you stand high on the dock, both rising like Icarus, and plummeting like... well, Icarus. Yet, you don't move an inch from where you stand, arms out, like a flower drinking the sunlight. Your skin burns.

You slide a foot to jump, and instead slip. A splinter breaks off in the ball of your foot as you fall, and fall, and fall, landing backwards on the hot wood. Your head throbs and every inch of your body hurts like death, but you don't want to move.

**Be Skwisgaar Skwigelf, age ten.**

You're sitting in your room, playing a little tune on your guitar, and mama is in the next room getting fucked like a pig. As is the norm.

You decide to take it downstairs, so you can hear yourself fucking think. You hate her, so so so much. Angrily plucking the strings of your Explorer, you try to get lost in the sound, but it just isn't working today. Something about your mood is just dampening everything, and you're too angry to appreciate Her lovely music. This makes you even angrier. You want to throw the guitar down and cry, but you can't throw it down. Then it'd be broken.

You need something to quiet the anger.

A bottle of scotch sits on the kitchen counter. You know mom's been drinking it, one glass for her and one for her  _beau_ -of-the-day. She says it lifts her spirits in ways sex can't at times. That interests you. Draws you in. You scramble to the counter and lift the bottle.

The liquid is brown, and watery. As quiet as a mouse, you grab a plastic cup from the cupboard. One with a kitty on it, that you bought for yourself. The kitty prances and plays on the pink cup. Maybe he's been drinking scotch too. Shrugging, you pour the strange drink in and sit back down in the living room, turning on the TV to drown out your thoughts. You're not really paying attention to what's on, though.

You sniff the drink. It smells like gasoline. People  _drink_ this stuff? Usually things that smell like this going in your body meant a call to poison control.

But clearly, mom's been having this stuff for awhile, and she's still alive with her organs probably intact. So you shrug it off. Maybe you can add something to it that'll make it less gross?... You can't think of anything strong enough in your fridge.

You take a sip, and instantly grimace, spitting it out onto the carpet. Mom's not gonna like that... And you don't feel any better. Maybe if you finish the whole thing? You chug it, like it's nasty medicine, a gross smelly happy drink. Then you place your cup on the coffee table and lean back.

It's not long before it kicks in, but you don't feel very good. If anything, you feel kind of sick. You try to stand, but you're so small that one cup was enough to make the whole world go all sideways-like. Your head is swimming, and you try to walk. The floor meets your head.

Pain rushes through your body, but you don't scream. Instead you croak, like a frog. And you lay there for hours, and hours, before mom's ready to come find you.

**Be William Murderface, age fourteen.**

You're sitting on the roof with your b... b...  _boyfriend_.

Your mouth is dry and your hands are shaking. It never gets any easier -- talking to him, hanging out with him, being close to him. It's always surreal and scary, knowing somebody loves you, that you're loved at all. 

Maxie is holding a party. Of course, you  _weren't_ invited, but you still showed up per Frankie's request. He smuggled you onto the roof of their house so you could watch the sunset together, and it's beautiful. And with him, he carries some kind of booze, with a label you can't read too well because of the obnoxious scripted logo on it. 

"Rum."

Frankie mumbles, gnawing the cap off with his slightly-crooked teeth. It pops. A delightful sound. "It smells like death."

"Ain't you sch'posch't to mixsch it wif' schomethin' firscht?"

"I didn't wanna spend more time in the kitchen than I had to, it's crowded down there."

"Fair 'nough."

"Uh, you first." Frankie passes you the bottle. Your palms are covered in sweat. You've never done anything like this before, it feels like a passage into adulthood. A gift. Your entry into this world, this strange place. You take a sip, and grimaced, spitting on yourself.

_Gross! Gross, gross, gross, gross, gross!_

You never touched the church wine, because it smelled bad, and you hate God. You never realized how awful it tasted. But you want to impress Frankie. (Even though he looks like he doesn't expect you to impress him.) You take another sip, and choke it down this time. "How's it, Will?"

"Isch bad. Real bad."

"Lemme try." You hand the bottle back over, and Frankie takes a gulp, making a muffled whining noise before swallowing it. "Fuck, ew..."

"We shoulda mixsched it wif' schomethin'."

"You're right. Eugh."

You frown, but inside you're smiling, because you aren't alone.

**Be Nathan Explosion, age sixteen.**

You're at a party, one of several you managed to worm your way into. Being on the football team has its advantages, and one is a free pass to any good party in the neighborhood, even though nobody really likes you much. 

Though, this is the first one you actually bothered going to, because you don't like people much to begin with. Everyone clearly thinks you're a pussy, even though they never vocalize it. Because mom always gave you packed lunches and kissed you on your way to the school bus, and dad still hadn't grown out of cheering you on at games, yelling,  _that's my boy out there!_ You'll show 'em, you'll show 'em all!

Now you're in the basement. It smells bad and you're kind of scared.

"Don't be a stranger, Nate."

It's obvious your classmates are completely gone. 

"I knew he'd just show up to be lame and shitty." Jay is drunk, and running his mouth again. "Go call yer momma if you're gonna act like a little bitch."

"Shut- shut up..."

You don't really want to. But you also don't want your classmates to think you're a little bitch! "Just- nobody's offered me any. But if it's free, then... whatever..." You take one of the half-filled cups off of the table, and slug it down, paying no mind to taste.

"That was  _mine_." Laura mutters.

"Where's the rest. Hit me. I'm a grown-ass fuckin' man." You stand, clapping your hands together and reaching for strange bottles. You don't know what they are, but you drink nonetheless, and it tastes bad, but you continue. People are clapping, chanting, and you feel alive.

You fall back in your chair. Eyes fuzzy. Stomach tight. Skin hot.

Maybe you overdid it.

Suddenly you're flying through layers and layers of clouds. Your brain is assaulted, each finger prying through the folds. You attempt to lift your arms and legs, only to find that they each weigh fifteen tons. As it continues to invade your head, you suddenly don't know what time it is, what year it is, where you are. You need a bathroom. To piss and vomit. You want your mommy, everything is so loud and scary. People are shouting at you but all you can do is whine and squirm.


End file.
